The Devil’s Enigma

POV: Lucien Valentino

I hated parties.

Mafia parties most of all.

They were theaters of polished lies—too many smiles with no warmth behind them, too many men clasping hands while calculating where to bury a bullet.

I stood near the balcony of the grand ballroom, one hand buried in my suit pocket, my gaze moving across the room with the patience of a blade being sharpened.

Three hundred people.

Twenty-four armed guards.

Six hidden exits.

Two men had been watching me for the last ten minutes.

I took a slow sip of my drink.

If either of them made a move, I already knew which one would die first. The other would live long enough to understand why.

People called me the Wolf for a reason. Not because I was wild. Because I knew exactly when to bare my teeth—and because few men were stupid enough to say the name within earshot.

“Lucien.”

My younger brother’s voice came from behind me.

Dante.

I didn’t turn around. Dante was the only person who could approach me from behind and leave with his life—and the only one reckless enough to treat that privilege like a joke.

“What?”

“My car has a problem. It won’t start. I’ll take yours. Rafael’s car broke down on the way here, so I’m going to fetch him.”

“Why not call one of the guards?”

“You know how Rafael is. I’ll go myself.”

Dante volunteered for trouble as if our family had appointed him its patron saint. I trusted him with my life, which was precisely why the thought of letting him out of my sight tightened something beneath my ribs.

I hated that weakness.

I hated even more that it had a name.

Before I could argue, Dante took my car keys and walked away.

I watched him disappear into the crowd, every instinct in me urging me to follow. No one stopped him. No one ever did. Even men twice his age knew better than to underestimate the brother of Lucien Valentino.

A moment later, my glass was empty.

A waiter appeared with another drink, almost as if he had been waiting for the last drop to vanish.

I took the glass from him.

“Thank you.”

He nodded and walked away.

I raised the drink to my lips, but didn’t swallow. My eyes continued their slow sweep across the ballroom.

Everything looked normal.

Too normal.

The music was too smooth. The laughter too measured. The guards too still.

Somewhere beneath the perfume, champagne, and expensive lies, danger had already entered the room.

And somehow, I knew it was coming for me.

After two minutes, I drained the last of my glass.

Dizziness struck before I could lower it.

My vision smeared. Heat crawled beneath my skin in prickling waves as the music swelled into a brutal roar. Light stabbed at my eyes.

I gripped the empty glass.

Something was wrong.

No. I knew exactly what.

The drink.

Someone had drugged me.

I forced myself to breathe and searched the ballroom. Faces melted together—smiling mouths, glittering eyes, indistinct shapes sliding past one another.

I couldn't stay.

I shoved away from the table and headed for the private rooms. Each step grew heavier. The floor tilted beneath me, and by the time I reached the room, my knees were trembling.

I slipped inside, shut the door, and leaned against it, gasping.

Then I saw the bed.

Red roses covered the sheets, arranged in a heart.

For one disoriented second, I could only stare.

Who the hell had done that?

Heat flared through me. My thoughts scattered.

I stumbled to the bed and sat on its edge. With shaking fingers, I reached for the AC and dropped the temperature.

Cold air blasted across the room.

The chill touched my skin, but the fire inside me only grew hotter.

I lay back, meaning to rest for a minute.

I needed to get up. Call Dante. Find whoever had drugged me.

But my body had stopped obeying.

My arms sank into the mattress. My legs went numb and heavy. Even keeping my eyes open became a battle.

Then—

Click.

My eyes cracked open.

The sound came from the door.

Someone was outside.

I held my breath as the handle began to turn.

Slowly.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I tried to sit up, but nothing happened. I tried to move my fingers. A faint twitch was all I managed.

The door opened a fraction, then stopped.

Silence pressed into the room.

I stared at the narrow gap, waiting for a face, a hand—anything.

Nothing.

For one desperate moment, I thought whoever it was had gone.

Then the door moved again.

A shadow slipped through.

My breath caught.

Footsteps crossed the floor.

One.

Two.

Three.

Closer.

I fought to widen my eyes, but the room dissolved into darkness.

The footsteps stopped beside the bed.

Someone stood over me.

I fought to keep my eyelids open, to see the face of my predator. My lashes fluttered, heavy as iron curtains, revealing only the faint, satisfied curve of a man’s smile.

Then, darkness swallowed me whole.

I existed in a state of suspended animation, trapped inside my own skin. I could hear the soft shift of fabric, the rhythmic pace of his footsteps closing the distance between us.

He stood over me. I couldn't see him, but I could feel the weight of his gaze crawling over my paralyzed frame like ants.

Then came the touch. His hands were deliberate, mapping my body with a possessive, slow-motion intimacy that made my soul recoil.

I screamed internally, a silent, bloody vow. If I lived through this, I wouldn't just find him—I would dismantle his world, piece by excruciating piece.

He didn’t say a word. The silence was his weapon, a heavy shroud meant to strip away my dignity while I remained helpless.

His fingers grazed my collarbone, cold and steady. Each sensation was magnified by the drug, turning a simple touch into an invasive interrogation of my senses.

He leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. Then, the sharp, sudden sting of his teeth against my neck sent a jolt of pure rage through my paralyzed nerves.

He was marking me. He was leaving his signature in bruises and broken skin, a claim of ownership I intended to reclaim with blood.

He pulled away, lingering just long enough for me to feel the arrogance radiating off him. Then, he moved toward the door, his exit as silent and calculated as his entry.

The lock clicked into place. I was alone, trapped in a room smelling of heavy roses and violation.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the drug to loosen its grip. My mind was a furnace, burning with the cold, hard promise of retribution.

The betrayal was total. The hunt had already begun.